Southern Poison (30 page)

The door dropped. I sensed him packing dirt and pine needles around the edges of the wood door and then everything became blaringly silent. I spit out the phone’s smart card and dried the saliva with my shirt. Unfortunately, it was useless without a power source. I stuck it in a pocket.

Reminding myself not to use more oxygen than necessary, I spent half an hour examining every inch of my dirt-and-brick prison, hands still banded together. Hoping that electricity had
been run at one time, I searched the crevices between every brick for wire and came up empty. The entire cellar was empty. And dark. In total pitch blackness, using my hands, I determined that it was just me and a dead bug. About eight feet long by four feet wide, the hole was almost deep enough for me to stand. Crouching with my shoulders against the overhead door, I pushed until my leg muscles quivered from exhaustion, and the healing wound on my back fired stabs of pain down my spinal cord. Nothing happened. Not only was there the weight of dirt on top of the door—he must have built it like a giant square planter—but John had also secured it from above. Heart slamming against my chest, I sat down to slow my pulse rate. There had to be something I could use, if nothing else to get the plastic cuffs off. Starting with the sandals on my feet, I mentally worked my way up to the small gold loops in my earlobes, my fuzzy brain thinking that there must be a use for my watch. It contained a battery! And I could use an earring to make a straight pin and get my hands free.

I got an earring off, straightened out the loop, and managed to wedge it downward between the roller-lock tension system and one of the wrist straps. The pin contraption stopped the teeth on the strap from engaging and I was able to loosen the strap enough to get one hand free. I did the same with the other side and, enjoying the accomplishment, rubbed my hands to get the circulation back. With two free hands, I used the corner of a brick to pry the back off my wristwatch and removed the round battery. It was a far cry from a cell phone battery, but it was juice. With the gold posts I broke off my earrings and a part of the watch band, I connected the tiny battery to the metal terminals on the SIM card. Holding it all against the ceiling of my dirt hole and unable to see a thing, I prayed like hell that I had the connections right.

I lost track
of time, but took it as a good sign that my lungs still worked. I contemplated digging a hole to the surface, but knew the cellar was old. The dirt had become compacted, almost stone-like. I didn’t have any digging tools—other than French-manicured fingernails. And I didn’t want to be found dead, fingers raw to the bone from having attempted to dig myself out. How undignified. Not to mention grotesque for the unlucky person who found me.

The only thing left to do, I deduced as I began to grow light-headed, was to carve a good-bye message into the dirt floor with my wristwatch. It might get read or it might not, but at least it would give me something to do. I was trying to decide what to write when I heard dogs. Or I might have imagined them. When the faint barks grew louder and stopped above me, I knew I’d been found and promptly passed out.

When I came to, Ox was lifting me out of the hole, his mouth to mine, forcing air into my lungs. Blinding floodlights made my eyes tear. There were people everywhere. The dogs’ handler was trying
to round up the animals, I heard Ashton’s voice, and two paramedics moved in to get a look at me. When they finished checking my vitals, I felt Ox’s hands run over my face and he held my eyelids open with his thumbs. When my eyes focused on him, he smiled.

I sat up. “How long have I been in there?”

“He snatched you between the Block and the Barnes Agency,” Ox said. “We found the abandoned hearse. If he brought you straight here from the restaurant parking lot, then you’ve been underground for seven hours. It’s almost morning.”

“Good grief. What took you so long?”

“Where’s your phone?” Ashton demanded.

“He smashed it.” I handed over the smart card, watch battery, and earring contraption.

Laughing, Ox pulled me into a crushing hug. “They only got a blip of a signal, Jersey, but it was enough to narrow your location to John Mason’s property. The team scoured the grounds and the house, but found nothing. They increased the search radius to a mile and spread out in a spiderweb grid. But I knew you were somewhere on this property. I could
feel
it. I convinced Ashton to fly in the dogs.”

“Thanks, Ash.”

Either too angry or too relieved to respond, he only nodded.

“We need to get an IV in her,” a paramedic said.

“I’m fine,” I told him. “No IV needed. Quart bottle of Gatorade will do.”

“Don’t you at least want some oxygen?” he asked.

“Can I have a tank to go?” I said. “I’m outta here.”

When
I awoke later that morning and went downstairs to retrieve the daily newspaper with Cracker leading the way, I found my handler waiting for me. Looking as though he’d had no sleep, he sat at the vacant bar, drinking coffee, even though the Block wasn’t open
for business until lunch. Cracker ran to greet our visitor. Yawning, I made sure my jammy top was buttoned to a reasonable height. Just because Ashton had authorized the charge for my big boobs didn’t mean he had a right to look at them.

“You’re going to a safe house,” he said.

“What, no ’good morning’?”

He looked at me with tired eyes. “Go pack your things.”

“Not even a ’How are you feeling after your night in a dirt hole, Agent Barnes?’” I studied my hands. “My back is sore and my fingernails are trashed, by the way. Maybe the agency can treat me to a mani and a massage?”

“I’m serious, Jersey. Your escorts will be here to take you as soon as I make the call. Go pack.”

After he broke in, Ashton had put a pot of coffee on to brew. I went behind the bar and poured myself a cup. “No. But thanks for the offer.”

“I’m not asking,” he said.

“I don’t care whether you’re asking or telling. You and I both know that I’d be a sitting duck in a SWEET retreat. You may as well strap a flashing neon target to my forehead.” I fished around to find some sugar, poured, stirred, and drank, grateful for life’s simple pleasures such as caffeine. “I am much more concerned about the
real
terrorist threat here, Ash. Not some two-bit thug on steroids who gets off by dumping a woman in a root cellar.”

“He took out two of my agents on coverage duty.”

I felt bad for the deaths of two people I didn’t know, but it wasn’t my fault that Ashton had underestimated John Mason. I propped opened a side door to let Cracker out. “Did you read my report on Derma-Zing? That’s the real terrorist action.”

Ashton half-sighed, half-cleared his throat. “We are evaluating the information.”

“Excuse me?”

Ashton sucked down a long swallow of coffee. “The scheme sounds far-fetched. But just for the sake of debate, let’s say it’s true. We’ve already got a full docket and I’m shorthanded as it is. Another agency would have to handle the investigation.”

“Which agency?”

“Probably the FBI along with individual state agencies. If it’s truly a problem in Europe and Japan, then Interpol would have to be notified. Back on our side of the water, the CDC would have involvement and the Federal Trade Commission might step in. All the individual state health agencies. I’m really not sure.”

“Exactly,” I said. “If we don’t take care of it, this thing will get shuffled around like a freakin’ customer complaint at the DMV office. Meanwhile, Peggy will bolt, along with the evidence we need to take Holloman down. And more important, the evidence we need to issue a recall before it’s too late for millions of users.”

Ashton looked at me. “It’s not what we do.”

“When I signed on, it was my understanding that stopping terrorism and other threats to public safety
is, precisely
what we do. Sterilizing an entire generation of young women is terrorism at its worst.”

My handler shook his head. “Go pack.”

“By the way, did you know that the Sec Def’s kid uses Derma-Zing? She had a design on her ankle during the wedding on Bald Head. You think he’d be happy to learn that his only daughter is being rendered sterile while you’re trying to push the file into someone else’s hands?” Cracker sauntered back in, stretched, and waited for somebody to pet him. “I’d imagine that he’s hoping for a lot of grandkids.”

Ashton rubbed bloodshot eyes. “Are you attempting to threaten me, Agent Barnes?”

I refilled his coffee cup and sat beside him. “No, but if you want a threat, here’s one for you. I’m thinking of doing a television interview about my ordeal in the root cellar. Of course it would probably
come out that the assailant was your
handpicked protégé
for the trial SWEET recruitment program, which you created. You know—the program that recruited agents from populations other than those already in military service? And that you not only found him, but kept him in the system despite reservations, because you wanted your new recruitment program to survive.” I scratched Cracker’s snout and watched his tail rev up. “Probably, the interviewer would find out that this former agent—your
handpicked recruit
—blew up my car, tried to murder the country’s secretary of Defense and sank a container ship along with two Coast Guard boats killing more than ten crew members.”

Ashton’s head fell forward. “How did you find out?”

“Your people trained me, Ash, remember? I’m good and I surround myself with people who are even better. When you refused to share his recruitment details and you kept shoving Mason’s innocence down my throat, I knew there was more to the story. Somebody hacked into SWEET’s system and found the details of the now-defunct program. But they said that your e-security is top-notch.”

“Soup,” Ashton said to himself. He didn’t bother to reprimand me and he knew they’d never be able to prove that Soup had been inside the electronic guts of the agency. Soup’s reputation and abilities were well known at SWEET. “What is it that you want me to do?”

I planned to find the chemist, I said. And when I did, I wanted a local safe house ready—for her. We needed to keep her secure and keep her from bolting while we questioned her.

The phone behind the bar rang. I answered it.

“Jersey, where the heck have you been?” JJ said. “I thought you were coming by the agency last night, and I’ve been trying to reach you ever since.”

“I got sidetracked by a bad man,” I told her. “But at least now, he can’t send me any more text messages because he smashed my phones.”

“Listen, Peggy Lee Cooke called and wants to meet with you. We got a location on her. A pay phone outside Whiteville. She’s in a motel but she wouldn’t say which one. She won’t talk to anyone except you.”

I got the rest of the details from JJ, hung up the phone, and stretched my back, which was still stiff from sitting in the dirt hole. Another hour of sleep would have felt great. I peeled a banana and offered Ashton half. He declined. Cracker was happy to accept the snack, though.

I dropped a pinch of banana in his waiting mouth. “About that safe house?”

“I’ll make it happen,” Ashton said.

“Great. Because as luck would have it, the chemist wants to talk. I don’t have to waste time tracking her down.”

“Please, let me
go!” Peggy Lee said from the passenger’s side of the corpse caddy, struggling with the zip-tie restraint that secured her wrists together. “I was going to leave a letter for you at the café, I swear. I was going to tell you everything in the letter.”

Instead of climbing back in bed after my chat with Ashton at the Block, I’d dressed and headed to Whiteville, a white Chevy Suburban on my tail. Using a prepaid mobile phone I bought along the way, I called the pay phone number that Peggy Lee left with the Barnes Agency. The chemist answered on the second ring. She told me to meet her at the Milky Way Café in Whiteville at eleven o’clock. Instead, I went straight to the street address of the pay phone and cruised nearby hotels until I found her Honda. Whiteville is a small town. At nine thirty, Peggy Lee emerged, looking ridiculous in an oversized hat and huge black sunglasses. The overcast sky and early hour didn’t necessitate either accessory. She carried nothing but a purse and a shopping bag. Once in her car, she pulled off the sunglasses to study a road atlas. Figuring the woman wouldn’t need a
road map to find her way to a nearby café, I pulled in behind the Honda, sideways, blocking her.

She tried to run when she saw me get out of the hearse and I had to physically restrain her. I searched the Honda, collected her belongings, and asked the motel manager if the Honda could remain parked in his lot for a week or so. “Sure,” he said and pocketed my hundred-dollar bill without missing a beat.

“You were going to write a tell-all letter?” I said to the chemist, pulling out of the parking lot. “How amusing.”

She frantically tried to get the plastic cuffs off with her teeth.

“That’s a very tough resin material you’re trying to bite through, Peggy Lee. Pretty much impossible to do. A handheld pair of hedge trimmers works best to cut them off.”

She went for the door handle. I slowed down, just in case she tried to throw herself out of the hearse. She did and hit the grassy shoulder of the road with a thud, not knowing how to break her fall with a roll. I pulled over as she struggled to her feet. The white Suburban stopped behind me and the two agents inside watched with amusement.

Running awkwardly, Peggy Lee tripped and fell. I planted a foot on her back before she could get up. Struggling, she ignorantly rolled onto her back and tried to kick at me. I pressed the sole of my shoe against her throat, just hard enough to get her attention. She stopped squirming.

“Here’s the deal, Peggy Lee,” I said, standing over her. “You are coming with me, one way or the other. If you keep acting stupid, you are going to hurt yourself. And if I have to, I will secure you with more than a couple of plastic strips and toss your ass in the back of the hearse for the hour drive to Wilmington. Is that what you want?”